Mightier than the sword
by BBCRules95
Summary: Watson says too much and faces the possibility of losing his best friend. Holmes had already lost everything, but is willing to give up even more. Can the two friends save each other, or will Holmes lose his life as well as Watson's friendship? I suck at summaries, but please have a read ;) Lots of whump and angst; no slash!
1. Chapter 1

**As promised, another SH story.**

**I'm having a 'let's-super-overwhump-all-of-my-favourite-charact ers-just-because-I'm-sad-again' time, so be warned that I'll probably make this a tear-jerking heart-breaking story. Don't like, don't read. Like, read by all means and enjoy ;)**

'Are you serious? Do you even have a brain? Are you capable of any…any logical processing in your head or is it just a box crammed with _useless_ scientific formulae and your bloody big ego?!' Watson knew that Holmes _was_ more than capable of logical processing, and all his knowledge was far from useless. Still, he couldn't help the spiteful words escaping. He had been pacing around the sitting room at Baker Street for the last quarter of an hour, reprimanding Holmes for his stupidity and selfishness. Once again, they almost got killed because the detective thought he was infallible. Once again he had to excuse himself in front of Mary and his patients, for rejecting his responsibilities. The only difference was that this time many of them wouldn't come back. This meant that Mary's father would be far from happy about the way that he was taking care of his daughter. Watson felt like his whole life tumbled down, professionally as well as personally, all because of Holmes.

Holmes didn't reply, but merely looked at him, indicating that Watson already knew the answers to his questions. Deep inside he was hurt, as guilt was eating away at his mind. If he was capable of any feelings, it was hatred towards himself for putting his friend in danger again. He would never have the heart to say it however, feeling that emotions would overtake logic. This, he could never allow.

'Of course. Just glare at me mysteriously Mr. Intelligent, as you always do. You don't even care, do you? As long as you get the result, you don't care how many people get hurt, do you?!'

Holmes wanted to protest. Boredom was a factor, yes. But he could employ his intellect in scientific research and making a name for himself instead of running around London, risking his life, simply because other people asked him to do so. Still, no sound left his mouth, which was now only a thin, straight line, betraying no emotions whatsoever.

'And all this was convenient, wasn't it? Mary getting upset about it?' Holmes rolled his eyes in response to the last remark. It was convenient in a way, of course. The more time he got to spend with his best friend, the better, but he decided long ago that it was time to start behaving like an adult and accept the state of affairs, as they were. 'But do you know what? Even if you manage to make Mary leave me, even if your _pathetic_ attempts succeed somehow, you can still only dream about having me back here, old boy.'

Watson knew that he went too far when Holmes's body suddenly tensed up and the detective clenched his jaw. He knew that it was a particularly sensitive topic. The doctor's reason was telling him to stop pushing it, to leave Holmes alone, but for the first time in his life he felt like he wanted his companion to know what it meant to be hurt by another human being.

'Because you know what? Maybe my departure isn't even about Mary…Maybe it's just because I'm so _sick of you_. How I wish I had never even met you on that damn morning…How I wish that you were de…'

Watson stopped himself the moment he realised what he was about to say. How could he? How did this even come to his mind? To say such things to his best and only _true_ friend? The man who would lay his life on the line just to protect him? The man who had done that on a number of occasions already? He looked down on Holmes sitting in his armchair. The detective suddenly looked much smaller, as if he did really want to disappear from the surface of the Earth.

'Truth be told Watson, so do I at times. Especially since you've left. Well, excuse me old boy, there are things that I need to attend to. Forgive me the inconveniences I have caused, this shall never happen again. For once, I'll make sure of that myself.' Holmes's voice was getting gradually more and more quiet, and the last sentence was nothing more than a pained whisper. Watson realised that Holmes accidentally managed to cut himself with the knife that he was clutching in his hand. He didn't even seem to notice the blood that was now trailing down his wrist, only to disappear behind the white fabric of his cuff.

As the detective rose from the chair and dropped the knife, Watson made a move in his direction. He tried to reach out to Holmes, but he skilfully managed to avoid the doctor's touch.

'My dearest, dearest friend. Please forgive me. I don't know what came over me. I…I should take a look at that cut. We don't want it to turn septic.' Watson's own voice was trembling, as was Holmes's entire body. He held Holmes's shoulders, trying to get the detective to look him in the eyes, to listen to his pathetic apology…

'I will be all right Doctor Watson. I shall not burden you anymore. Fare you well and give my best to Mrs. Watson, would you?' Watson had never heard the detective's voice falter so much. He hated himself for knowing that he was the cause of his friend's anguish.

'I'm sorry…I'm sorry, please listen. I don't know…I was angry, I'm sorry Holmes. Please, don't go…You know I didn't mean to say all this, I was so angry, so very angry!'

'I think we both _wanted_ to say this for a long time. Only you were the one who finally found the courage to.'

Before Watson could do anything, Holmes sprinted down the seventeen stairs of his Baker Street home and without even bothering with putting on a coat, he disappeared into the storm that was raging outside. All he wanted was to get away. Now Baker Street, the only place that ever felt truly familiar and safe, would be no more than just a building haunted by memories of those few spiteful words that left the doctor's mouth. At the moment, Holmes would rather be buried several feet under the ground than in that bloody living room.

Watson sank down into the armchair that used to belong to him, when he was still sharing the lodgings with Holmes. His mind still couldn't quite come to terms with what he did. The hurt and anger that he felt moment ago towards Holmes, were now centred exclusively on himself. However, he couldn't worry for too long, because Holmes was out there doing God knows what, and he might be in need of the good doctor's help.

XXXXXXX

Fighting a boxing match against an opponent twice as big as oneself was never a good idea. It was especially not a good idea, when the neurons inside one's brain had been tampered with by cocaine, and one's judgment and instinct were blunted by alcohol. But since when did Sherlock Holmes pay any attention to what was good for him?

Contrary to popular belief, the drugs and the alcohol actually made it easier. He knew that in his current state he should have given up the fight long ago. However, the pain wasn't somehow as intense as it should be, according to Holmes's extensive knowledge, neither was his self-preservation instinct working anymore. Besides, his opponent seemed to be enjoying himself, so why prevent yet another man's happiness?

The next time someone dragged Holmes up by his arms, his body refused to cooperate. He could already feel that he had at least two broken ribs and a concussion. He couldn't identify precisely the internal injuries to his organs, but from the beating his abdomen took, he was sure that there should be some. _The more, the merrier_, he thought. Even though he had been hoping for the physical pain and exhaustion to cover the emotional suffering he was going through, he still didn't feel any better. Finally the decisive blow came, and the last thing he though before he passed out, was that he wanted his boswell to be there, to help him. Surely, Watson would have wanted him to remain conscious; passing out after such a blow couldn't be a good thing. Then he remembered all the things that the good doctor said and willingly gave himself into the arms of Morpheus.

XXXXXXX

It took Holmes a moment to identify his surroundings. He wasn't surprised at all to find himself in an alley, next to the pub he had been fighting in. The owner never wanted to waste his time for caring for the pathetic, little losers who only caused trouble since people lost their money because of them. The detective tried to find some leverage to get up. His hand only slid down the wall that he was trying to use for support and he fall to the ground with a groan, as his broken ribs protested against the sudden movement. He didn't really mind the fact that he couldn't get up. He had nowhere in particular to go. Baker Street would probably be the reasonable place to get cleaned up and even more drunk, but Watson could still potentially be there. Even if he wasn't, the place was associated with too many memories, that Holmes definitely didn't want to have to revisit right now.

'Hey Mr. Detective! Not so smart now, are we?' Holmes heard a low voice coming from the unlit end of the alley. He wasn't sure why, but something was telling him to get away from this place _immediately_. He tried to obey, but something hard stomped down on his chest, eliciting a groan of protest from the detective lying on the ground. 'My boss has a couple of questions he'd like to ask you. I hope you won't answer them too quickly. This would be too boring.' Having registered a definite 'DANGER!' in his brain, he felt no more.

**Finished for now. So, was it disastrously bad, mildly horrible or maybe a tiny, little bit good? Let me know what you thought. Criticism is always welcome, it's the only way to improvement!**

**I feel like this is really out of character, but anyway…**

**REVIEW, if you want to have me continue this ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, lovely readers!**

**Thank you very much for the reviews and follows. I have to say that my bad mood is getting the better of me and I can't even write properly anymore. I rewrote this three times and ended up deleting a half of it that I will probably publish later today. I might actually change this chapter completely as well **

**I'm sorry about it being crap. *hides under the bed***

Waking up to find yourself tied to a chair was boring. In all honesty, those criminal minds of London should get slightly more creative, at least when trying to take up a fight with Sherlock Holmes.

It sounded as if he was on his own in the room, but still didn't dare open his eyes. He needed to think, in case he underestimated his opponent again. The place was damp but warm, and he could definitely identify the unmistakable stench of the sewers. He was somewhere by the river then, not far away from where he got knocked out. _Amateurs,_ he mused to himself.

'Wakey, wakey you scumbag. I know you ain't asleep no more.'

Holmes silently refused to obey. Complying with their demands would be too boring, and without all the variables in the equation he needed to play for time. He changed his mind when the fist of his capturer connected with his already bruised cheek. His eyes flew open of their own accord, without waiting for a permission from Holmes's brain.

'When you are told to wake up, you wake up Mr. Holmes.' The second voice sounded different. The speaker took his time to articulate each word clearly, and Holmes knew that he wouldn't hear this kind of accent from a common thug.

'And why would that be Mr…?' Holmes retaliated questioningly.

This time the punch was aimed at his stomach and felt a thousand times worse than the first one. Holmes realised that he must have gotten sober by now, because the world was no longer spinning, he could feel every single nerve in his body and his senses were as sharp as ever.

'In answer to your first question. Because unless you do, I will personally make sure that you suffer. As to who I am, we will get to that later.' The tone of the man's voice betrayed uncontrolled anger. Holmes waited until he calmed down a bit, and tried to proceed with identifying who he was dealing with.

'May I ask you why you brought me to this…place?' This time the force of the punch he received was so great that Holmes's breath hitched in his throat. Although he tried to keep his calm, he ended up doubling over in the chair and then he was choking on something. He was yanked back up by his hair and finally managed to draw in a longed-for breath. He cursed himself mentally for being so curious when he felt warm, metallic liquid trailing down his chin. He couldn't tell whether he simply bit his tongue, or whether the beating was already starting to take more serious effects on his body.

'When you are not asked for it, you don't speak. You are an intelligent man Mr. Holmes. I am sure that you know that it would be best to comply, considering your current predicament.'

_Well, I am certainly more intelligent than you_. Holmes's mouth opened, but eventually he decided against retorting. First, he wanted to know what he has got himself into.

The man was accompanied by two other people. It was evident that the one who hit him was running this circus, and the other two were just his brainless flying monkeys. Holmes finally got the chance to look more closely at his captor. He was about the same age as the detective and Holmes had to admit that he had an intimidating feel to him. He was definitely tall, but the effect was magnified by the fact that he kept his back perfectly straight and held his head high. His moustache was trimmed perfectly, and it was evident that he made the effort to look neat and clean. His clothes were pressed immaculately; Holmes couldn't help but admire the way that he tied his cravat, making sure it was perfectly symmetrical. When the detective's eyes landed on a blade fastened to his belt he confirmed his hypothesis that he was dealing with a military man…apparently a veteran of the Afghan war, like Watson. _Watson. No, don't think about him. _

'Rupert Cavendish. 26 years old. Currently incarcerated in Belmarsh Prison. Awaiting execution. Unjustly. Are you familiar with this story Mr. Holmes?'

'Rupert Cavendish. The murderer and torturer of six children. He is going to hang in a weeks' time, to make London a safer place. Yes, I am familiar with this story. Unjustly? Not quite.' Apparently his capturer had a different opinion. This time the beating didn't stop with just one blow. Every single hit was carefully measured out and aimed. The soldier knew what he was doing in order to hurt, but not quite damage Holmes too much. The detective tried to shit in his chair, hoping he would be able to twist in a way that would earn him a hit on the head strong enough to knock him out. This only aggravated the opponent's anger and he caught Holmes by his throat, pulling him up together with the chair. He looked the detective in the eyes, communicating so much hatred that Holmes believed the look itself could kill. And for the love of God, or whatever mysterious power existed somewhere out there, _he could not breathe._ He somehow knew that it wasn't a good thing.

'You might think you're clever, Mr. Intelligent. Those idiots from Scotland Yard may be fooled, but I never will. My brother was a good man. Because of _your_ mistake he is going to die.'

Holmes closed his eyes, feeling drowsy and fearing that his head might explode any moment now. He knew that it was just his brain playing tricks on him, but his capturer reminded him of Watson, with his military neatness and…and reminding him that all the evil in this world was his fault. Probably he wanted him dead as well. And the quip: Mr. Intelligent…that was exactly the same word that Watson used when reprimanding him…It didn't make any sense... Maybe the met each other in the army…?

'Mr. Holmes, we both want this to stop. Trust me. All you have to do, is let me take you to the police station, so that you can turn this thing around and fix the mess that you have created. You made a mistake, that's natural, now you need to face the facts.'

'Trust you?' Holmes's words were slurred together and he had difficulty keeping upright. He would probably have laid on the ground long ago, had the man's hand not been supporting him. 'I didn't make a mistake, your brother did. Now _he_ needs to pay.'

The elder Cavendish shook his head, but a grin appeared on his face.

'Oh, John was so right about you…Anyway, you leave me no choice. It's a shame Rupert won't be able to see this…'

When the man was still talking, someone pulled a black bag over his head, and Holmes could definitely hear the sound of a knife being sharpened. But his mind was focused on something very different: what did Jon Watson had to do with all this?

XXXXXXX

'What do you mean he disappeared?' Mycroft Holmes frowned, without even looking up from the paper he was reading.

'I mean that he left the house, hasn't come back since and I've checked every single place in London, where he could possibly be without…'

'You know what he is like. I'm sure you are exaggerating good Doctor. Now if you would forgive me, I am quite busy. But thank you for informing me. If it bothers you so much I shall have someone sniff around and see what they can do.'

Watson gave up on trying to have a normal conversation with the elder Holmes when two bulky men entered the room, probably intending to escort him out. He wanted to scream, cry, and preferably disappear from the surface of the Earth. He had been looking for Holmes for hours with no result. There was an abundance of people who would be happy to use his vulnerability to hurt him, and Watson didn't even want to imagine what dangers were waiting out there for his friend.

However, what bothered him most was that his words were mightier than any sword could ever be. Bodies heal, souls not so much.

XXXXXXX

'You do realise that whatever you do to me, Scotland Yard has the evidence and nothing can save your brother?' Holmes tried to appear indifferent to the sounds in the background, but his heart was evidently speeding up.

'I don't really care that much about him. It just makes this whole ordeal look a whole lot nobler on my part. You are the criminal, Rupert was the victim. I am simply, executing the law, so to say.' The man laughed. It wasn't a happy sort of laugh. It was the kind that one would hear in a hospital full people who were not quite right in their heads. It was the kind of laugh that would turn heads in a tavern and terrify the poor customers.

Holmes tried not to think about the metallic sound of the knife being sharpened, and his mind always drifted off towards Watson. Towards his spiteful words that carved a wound into his soul, that would not heal like those that even the sharpest tools could inflict on his body. A wound that was deeper, that ripped out a part of him and would leave him scarred forever.

'I am doing a service to society, aren't I?' _And to Watson_, the detective thought.

'The society of thugs, certainly.'

'Oh, you really can't behave yourself, can you?' Seconds later a gag was tied tightly around his mouth. He could feel a sharp blade being pressed against his cheek, still covered by the black bag.

_Is that supposed to scare me? Not a good idea, my dear…_

Not even an hour later after Cavendish put the knife to use Holmes's opinion was different. He wasn't scared, he was screaming in terror.

**Clearly boring crap. Do tell me if you want me to shut up, cause I don't really have motivation to write anymore unless you want me to…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Yay me, second update in a day!**

**Thanks for the reviews, they are very much appreciated. That one was difficult to write, so I hope I didn't mess it up too much (probably hoping against hope).**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy.**

They had cut the ropes, and Holmes was now lying on the cold stone floor. He was free from his bonds, but all he wanted to do was to lay down and never have to get up again. He didn't even make the effort to move a single finger, as the two thugs held him down on the ground and their boss went around amusing himself. Cavendish was certainly a military man. And a medic. _Just like Watson_. He knew exactly where and how to cut, in order to inflict pain without allowing him to pass out too early. The blood loss and the agony were enough to make Holmes feel drowsy. Tears were streaming down his face, but he was already past the point of caring. It was just a natural way for his body to try to deal with what was happening, not a real sign of weakness.

'Oh look at this Samuel, he's crying! Isn't this funny? I thought he could make it for least for a couple of hours. John was really exaggerating how bloody brave this one is.'

_John. John. John. Military doctor. Mr Intelligent. Afghanistan. What does Watson have to do with this? He wouldn't want this, would he? Surely…He was a good man, he was…used to be his friend! 'I wish you were dead. I wish you were dead. I wish you were dead. Look at you, old boy! Crying? You're pathetic. I wish you were dead.'_

Suddenly Cavendish caught Holmes tightly, locking him into an embrace that almost seemed comforting and leaned back against a wall.

'Where is your little friend Holmes, huh? He abandoned you, didn't he? What are you going to do now? Come on, stop crying! You're not a girl, are you?' He laughed, indicating that he far from minded Holmes's tears. The detective tried to imagine that it was Watson holding him, not a thug who was about to cut him to pieces while he was still breathing. He tried to imagine that his torturer wasn't right, and that Watson would never leave him, no matter what.

Then a new wave of agony hit him, just as he started to relax slightly, and cursed his own brain for letting its guard down and allowing him to be tricked. _Salt_, thought Holmes. _God, please not that_. He tried with all his will-power to remain silent as the man holding him rubbed the small crystals into the incisions. He knew however, that humans are merely an animal species and eventually instinct takes over reason. The cloth tied over his nose and mouth muted Holmes's whining slightly, but the noises that made it through the fabric were enough to spread a grin on his captor's face. Holmes never paid much attention to unnecessary elements of life such as metaphors, but now he fully appreciated how the phrase 'rubbing salt into the wound' got coined. He couldn't feel anything but the overpowering agony. He would give anything for it to stop, reason and logic be damned.

_I wish you were dead. Pathetic. I wish you were dead. Useless. I wish you were dead. Holmes!_

The detective realised that he must have passed out for a moment. Watson's voice kept ringing in his head.

'Wmhm…' he tried to reply to his friend's cry, but the fabric tied around his head muted the sound. What could the doctor possibly want with him? And what was he doing there in the first place?

'Do you want to say something? Fine…' The gag was removed, and only then did Holmes get to appreciate how nice breathing felt.

'Watson…' his voice was hoarse and trembling after all he screaming of the last hour. It was just loud enough for his captors to hear and burst out laughing again.

'He's not here Holmes. He doesn't want to be your friend anymore, remember?'

Those words were enough to bring back the unpleasant memories of the previous evening. Moisture returned to the detective's eyes, not because of agony this time, but because of hopelessness. If Watson wasn't there to help him, who else would? And what was the point of life anyway, if the only thing that he truly cared about was gone?

As the blade mercilessly connected with the flesh again, a horrific realisation struck Holmes. How did Cavendish know that Watson was angry with him? He had already deduced that they must know each other, because of how his torturer's evident past, but how on Earth would he know about the argument? Unless…_No! Watson would never be involved with this, nor with a man like Cavendish! He was angry, but he would never…never…_

'He wouldn't…not ever… ' Holmes didn't even realise that the words repeating themselves in his head were actually spoken out loud. 'Not Watson, not my b-best friend…he wouldn't…'

'Oh, I told you that unless you are quiet, I will make your life very unpleasant, didn't I?' Having made the message clear verbally, Cavendish twisted the knife now embedded in Holmes's forearm. In fear of being punished again Holmes took his shirt's collar in between his teeth and bit as hard as he could, having gained control over the sobs that made breathing close to impossible.

_And then there he was, Watson, standing tall over him, as Holmes was writhing on the ground in agony. He tried to plead with Watson wordlessly, to make it stop, to forgive him. But the doctor laughed. Not as he would usually when they sat in front of the fireplace after a successfully solved case; the sound was cold and distant and Holmes couldn't help but notice the hatred and disgust in his friend's eyes. _

'Watson, please…' Holmes stirred under the hold of the thug, trying to reach out towards his friend. Even if it was the last thing he did, he would be forgiven, he _had_ to be forgiven. Cavendish mercilessly ignored his pleas, and continued with the ordeal, eliciting sounds from Holmes's mouth that no longer sounded human.

_The doctor was still smirking, as if he was enjoying what he was seeing. Holmes was sure that he saw a glimpse of regret in those grey eyes, but as soon as Watson knelt down next to the brute and whispered something in his ear, his grin growing even wider, the detective knew that it was just his imagination. And then he was by Holmes's side, just as the detective was genuinely starting to wish for death, for any kind of relief from the constant burning and the blood now freely streaming down his bare torso and arms. Watson looked the detective in the eyes, his smile disappearing momentarily. _

'Wa-watson…The pain, I-I…can't…D-don't...leaaaaaaave meeeee!' Holmes's whispers turned into agonised half-cries, half-sobs, as Cavendish kept tormenting him without a hint of compassion or mercy. Holmes closed his eyes, because he was aware that if he kept them open, he wouldn't be able to hold out for long without getting sick. 'Please, forgive me.'

_Watson looked down at Holmes, something akin to sadness filling his eyes. However, he remained indifferent to his friend's whimpers and offered no further comfort._

'_You think this is pain Holmes? How do you think I felt when I had to confront Mary? How do you think I felt, when my professional career kept going downhill because of you? How do you think I felt every single time that you betrayed my friendship! I asked you so many times and you didn't listen to me even once!' By the end of the monologue the doctor wasn't even trying to contain his anger. He held Holmes's gaze all the time and remained as still as a marble figure. He was now holding a knife himself, turning it over in his hands, as If he was pondering over what was the best way to use it._

'I'm sorry…'m s-sry…I can't…I c-can't…so sorryyyyy.'

The torturer put the bloodied blade down on the table and looked at the broken figure lying on the ground. They only just started having fun and he had to pass out already, didn't he? Couldn't this bloody detective do anything the easy way for once?

Even in his delirium Holmes knew that he was slowly falling apart, piece by piece. He would never be able to decide when his final breaking point had been: when he begged for death in his sleep for the first time, or when he chose to focus on the physical agony just to avoid looking at his friend's face, as he was delighting in watching Holmes suffer for his sins.

**As I already mentioned, I found writing this really difficult (even though I even asked a friend for a little help), so some suggestions on how to improve this would be welcome. I might tweak it a bit if I think of a way to.**

**PLEASE REVIEW, and tell me if you want more or whether I should stop inflicting my creativity and depression on the world. **

**Cheerio!**


	4. Chapter 4

**OK, this is crap. I struggled. Holmes probably struggled as well. The next chapter won't be as heavy-going. Promise.**

**Oh, and of course thank you for your reviews which at this point are the only think that keep me going and for your readership in general.**

When Holmes woke up, Cavendish was towering over him. Normally Holmes would try to go back to sleep to escape whatever torments the man had in store for him. This time however, he was happy to leave the land of Morpheus and come back to the realm of the living. Most people dreamt about nice things, or at least some unimaginable and simply weird scenarios. The only thing, or rather person, who visited Holmes in his dreams was Watson, who only added to the detective's suffering through cruelly reminding him of his faults and weaknesses. Holmes decided that it was best to take bravely what Cavendish had to offer, because nothing could hurt as much as the spiteful words spoken by Watson.

Holmes definitely started doubting his sanity when he saw the good doctor standing right next to the other soldier, wearing his military jacket and the scarf offered to him by Mary – the very same clothes that Holmes used to mock him about. He seemed even more cheerful than the last time the detective saw him, and by now he knew that it couldn't mean anything good.

The floor seemed even harder than before, and the warmth that engulfed the room earlier was now gone, leaving Holmes shivering not only from pain, but also because of the cold. The detective calculated that there was no way out: even if he wasn't eventually killed by his torturer, pneumonia would catch up with him and take him from this world. He started hoping against hope that maybe he could at least pass away with his best friend by his side.

Holmes was expecting more knives, maybe another beating, but what happened instead was that he was handed a glass of water. He knew that he should be at least a little bit suspicious, he knew that maybe Cavendish already got bored of him and chose to end the detective's misery through poisoning him. However, Holmes's throat was raw from screaming and feeling drowsy after sleeping suggested dehydration. Given the extreme circumstances, his instincts beat the reason and Holmes swallowed the liquid down greedily, clutching the cup in his hands like a lifeline, and paying close attention to prevent even a single drop from falling from the container. He never expected this abundant, transparent liquid to taste so good. No whiskey could compare with the soothing relief that the simple combination of hydrogen and oxygen brought, Holmes mused to himself. He was still thinking like a scientist, maybe he hasn't lost his mind completely?

As he was drowning the last drops from the cup, he felt a delicate prick on his arm. He had been too preoccupied to even notice that Cavendish was now standing behind him with a syringe, embedding it in Holmes's shoulder without a word of warning. _So it isn't the water that's the problem then._

_The look on Watson's face changed. He now looked more like a teacher, unhappy with a student that had not been paying attention. Couldn't he just tell Holmes what was wrong for once? _

Holmes was hoping that it was just his imagination, but the area around the place where the needle went in was starting to sting terribly. What did they do to him this time? To confuse him even further, Cavendish, his sidekick that he addressed earlier as Samuel _and Watson_ left the room in silence, leaving Holmes slumped against a wall and still holding the cup in his hands.

The stinging was getting more intense, and soon turned from a dull ache into actual pain. Worse still, it was spreading down his arm and all over the upper part of his body. Whatever they did, the sensation made Holmes forget about the numerous bleeding cuts on his body and focus solely on the new torment. The wall behind Holmes's bruised back seemed even colder and harder now. Everything was blurring, as Holmes's mind kept drifting towards the intensifying pain which kept creeping down his body, until it went as far as to reach his feet.

The detective tried to move, to make himself more comfortable. Maybe if he laid down, his chest wouldn't burn so much? Minutes later he decided against it. The pain got even worse, and Holmes felt as if his entire body was on fire. The knives were nothing compared to this. He felt warm and cold at the same time, he could feel blades slashing through his delicate skin easily and he could swear that he was drowning in a pool of acid that was slowly burning its way through his body. Holmes was mortified. He had never encountered that kind of poison before, and the agony made it impossible to think. He was dying, being cut up alive, beaten and burnt at the same time, the assault on his battered body coming from all sides, now even from within, he realised duly. But surely, the suffering would end any moment now, if he was dying? And weren't you supposed to _not_ feel your limbs after they were no longer there?

Holmes tried to shift again, and again…and again. By the time he was writhing on the ground relentlessly, altering his distractions between sobbing his soul out and pointlessly begging for mercy, he realised that relief wouldn't come, unless his captors agreed to give it to him. _Unless Watson decided to give it to him_. The detective's mind was no longer working as it should. _Stop it. Please. Stop it. Please. Stop it. Please. Stop it. Watsoooooon!_

When Cavendish with Watson by his side marched into the room again, Holmes could swear that eternity has passed. He didn't even make the effort to acknowledge their presence. The only thing he could do, was to carry on babbling pleas for relief from the agony and fruitlessly trying to make himself more comfortable. He managed to crawl towards Cavendish, clutch his trouser leg like a lifeline and spit out a silent _'please'_, hoping that his capturer would understand what he meant. This last ounce of effort rid him of all that remained from his strength and energy and the animalistic urge to fight for relief himself finally took over everything else. He screamed, like he had never screamed before in his life, hoping that whatever he had been injected with, would leave his body with the pained, animalistic whines. The glass he had been holding on to was now on the ground, shattered into tiny pieces that threatened to cut into Holmes if he made a wrong move.

_To his surprise, Watson was by his side now, kneeling on the ground covered in Holmes's dried blood, amongst the shreds of glass. Regardless of the delirium, Holmes through about how the blood reminded him of the crimson carpet that he and Watson once bought, having only just moved into Baker Street. The doctor looked almost concerned, and put a hand on Holmes's shoulder, making the other man moan unconsciously, as any sensation different than the excruciating pain was welcome. _

'_Do you want this to go away, old boy? Do you want me to make it stop?' Holmes desperately tried to convince himself that he wasn't just imagining the concern in Watson's voice. 'Well, look what I have here.' Watson dug deep into his pocket and pulled out a syringe, that Holmes was too familiar with. Morphine, he through, reaching out with his hand towards the contraption. That tiny gesture elicited a grin from Watson._

'What a wonderful invention, Mr. Holmes! Brought to you straight from one of our finest colonies, thousands of miles away from here. I wonder why the government doesn't use it in war…Imagine, having opponent armies begging you for relief and eventually death, knowing that no painkillers will help them, knowing that they are completely at out mercy.' This time it was Cavendish who spoke, holding the device that was in Watson's hands only seconds ago.

'what…' Holmes managed to mumble in reply, suppressing another groan and actually looking up at Cavendish and expecting a reply. 'Give…m-me…s-s-some,' he pleaded, unable to stop the tears of pain and humiliation leaking from his half-lidded eyes.

'The venom, Mr. Holmes. There is _no _cure for it, I'm afraid. I'm not wasting this on you,' he held up the syringe for Holmes to see and then put it back in his pocket. Holmes whined, as his only hope for relief disappeared from sight. 'Instead, I will sit back and enjoy the show. I wonder…how long will it take you to _beg_ me for death? Samuel,' he turned towards the other man, 'Do you want to bet on how long he'll hold out?'

Watson was still there, not reacting to the cruel words that left his captor's mouth . This couldn't be happening, there had to be something they could do! Holmes was now clutching the front of his bloodied and torn shirt, twisting the fabric between his long, thin fingers and imagining that he was maltreating his captor instead of the material. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing. He screamed at Watson, no longer to ask for mercy but to keep his mind off the burning agony, but making even the tiniest of sounds only aggravated the pain. He tried to lay still and cease thinking, but his delirious mind always drifted back to the fires consuming his body and the knives cutting whatever remained of it.

Cavendish was now next to Watson, kneeling on the floor next to Holmes's tormented body and looking the detective in the eyes. A particularly painful wave of agony ripped through the fragile figure laying on the ground, and the fighter in Holmes returned for a brief moment. He tried to reach out his hand towards Cavendish and show him that no matter what he did, he wouldn't break him. His brain tried to tell the muscles and joints to move, but his arm remained unmoved, now hurting even more than seconds before. He looked down onto his bicep, and realised that the place where the needle went in was now terribly swollen, making movement impossible.

'_See old boy, you can't even protect yourself. How could I ever trust you with my own life?' Watson spat out. _

'_That was the best idea you've ever had John, really. Just look at this piece of scum. Maybe he'll finally learn his lesson and leave you and Mary alone,' this time it was Cavendish who spoke._

'_Well, I certainly hope so. And I have to say, this is quite gratifying.'_

_Upon hearing those words, Holmes tried to crawl towards the man he used to know as his friend, not even noticing the additional pain, as his body pressed against the remains of the cup he had dropped. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Not like this. Not now. Not Watson. _

'You w-were…involved in this, W-w-wat-s-son,' Holmes's voice was trembling too badly by the end of the question. His genius mind had been refusing the fact up to this point, but now he had actually heard a clear confirmation.

He never got to hear a reply, because all his senses gave out, and the only thing that remained was the ever-present, excruciating burning. He couldn't hear his own cries, couldn't feel his own tears or see the wide grins of his tormentors. Even Watson didn't matter anymore, and that's when the last human part of Sherlock Holmes died.

**Evil. Evil. Evil. Evil. Evil. My cruelty, wickedness and depression know no bounds. The poison that I'm writing about would probably not have been available in England in the 1890s, but I thought it'd be appropriate. I actually found it thanks to my obsession with Disney. Do not even ask. **

**REVIEW, if you want more and if you want me to take this into a particular direction. The next chapter won't be as heavy as this. Promise. Plus, Watson (well, the actual Watson and not an evil imaginary Watson) will finally make an appearance again ;)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Another chapter. Just because I can (oh, this is such a cliché!) Thanks to all those who read and liked ;) I'm sorry that it came out so long, but I just happened to start typing and this is the result.**

A gunshot. Footsteps. Another gunshot. Gunshots meant trouble. But trouble was good, maybe somebody would finally be kind enough to free him from his misery? Holmes tried to move, hoping that he would get in the way of one of the bullets and gain absolution from the constant excruciating pain, but to no avail. His body no longer cooperated at all. Even breathing seemed to be too much effort, but try as he might, his instinct to survive was stronger than his will for peace. He didn't know if he was crying any more or not. The last time Cavendish was unhappy with his whining he gave him another beating, just to prove a point. Holmes tried to stop, but the human in him won the battle with the detective.

Out of nowhere, a bulky figure appeared next to him. It wasn't Cavendish, the new assaulter was too big to be him. Holmes's brain decided to try to ask for mercy, maybe this one would be more humane that Cavendish and his other flying monkeys? He didn't even realise that the shooting had stopped, and the room was perfectly still now. All his senses were blunted by the overwhelming agony, and he couldn't even tell if it was the day or the night. What he could tell however, was that he was being lifted off the ground, because the whole world started spinning dangerously and the floor appeared very distant from this new perspective. Maybe he was dead finally? He couldn't see a body however, and surely if he was just a spirit he wouldn't keep feeling the burning in his body, would he?

'Sherly, hush now. You're ok. You're ok…' Holmes was familiar with the voice and even though he knew he wasn't overly keen on it, he somehow associated it with safety and shelter. Sherly? Oh yes, there was only one person who called him that. But what would Mycroft be doing there? Surely, he wouldn't abandon Queen and country just to look for him? No, no, no…what if…what if he was implicated in this, as Watson was? Maybe this was just part of the plan?

The very thought made him whimper, contrary his brother's demands and he felt someone brush a lock of damp hair from his forehead. The younger Holmes would truly rather spare himself the humiliation, but even the most delicate of touches caused discomfort and he couldn't help the desperate noises from leaving his mouth. All of a sudden someone was holding a cup to his lips; he refused to drink at first, fearing the repercussions after the last time he did. Mycroft tried to soothe him again and finally managed to force some liquid down his younger sibling's throat.

He had dismissed Watson without a blink when he came into his study searching for Sherlock. Upon looking down at the sobbing , bloodies and quivering mess laying stiff in his arms, Mycroft knew that he would never forgive himself for that mistake.

XXXXXXX

_If convenient, come at once. If inconvenient, come all the same._

Watson looked up from the sheet of paper he was holding. He had seen a similar note before and it didn't mean anything good.

'There is a carriage waiting for you outside, Dr. Watson. It will take you to Mr. Holmes's estate, as requested.' The expression on the servant's face was blank, after all how could you feel enthusiastic about anything when working for the ever-laconic Mycroft Holmes? Still, Watson couldn't shake off the feeling that he wouldn't like what was to follow. He was silently hoping that his best friend may have been found. But as soon as this thought crossed his mind, he imagined that it wasn't Holmes, but a cold, dead body. He grabbed his coat rapidly and almost jumped down the stairs, not waiting for the servant to catch up with him.

The journey was taking forever. London was as grim as always, with the rainy clouds clotting the sky, accompanied by the ever-present industrial fumes. Was the greatness of the Empire worth the price, Watson wondered. His heart was beating as fast as never. Mycroft could have been more precise as to what he wanted, if not to keep save the doctor worrying, then at least to allow him to prepare for what was to come.

As Watson stood outside the heavy wooden door, his heart was beating even faster than before. The day was exceptionally cold, even for London, but the doctor needed to unbutton the top buttons of his shirt to avoid suffocating. He was led up the stairs only to find himself staring at the back of Mycroft Holmes leaning against the doorframe. The man didn't seem to notice in arrival, because he was evidently too focused on something inside the room. Watson approached him from behind and cleared his throat to get the taller man's attention, in hope of finding out more about what was happening. The elder Holmes remained unmoved for a moment, but finally turned around to face his guest.

The expression on his face was grim, he had bags under his eyes and Watson was hoping that he was only imagining it, but he could spot resentment somewhere in the deep black orbs.

'Evening good Doctor. Thank you for coming,' Mycroft spoke silently, as if all energy had left his body. 'Come…feel free to come in if you will.' The man took a step back, to make space for the doctor to pass.

As a doctor Watson had seen many gruesome things, nevertheless when his eyes landed on the figure on the bed in the corner of the room, bile rose in his throat. He had to swallow hard to spare Mycroft's servants polishing the floor.

'What happened to him?' Watson's voice was shaking and he felt a sudden tightness in his throat, remembering the last words he spoke to his friend.

'I don't know and frankly speaking I don't care. We found him like this, killed the animal who did it. Don't ask questions about this doctor, please.'

Watson took a few steps forward and when he knelt next to the bed and held Holmes's cold hand in his, he could no longer suppress the tears that had been threating to fall since he first looked at the body on the bed. Holmes's entire torso was covered in bandages, but the traces of blood scattered across the material and the little, but carefully measured out cuts on Holmes's arms, told Watson what had occurred when his friend was missing. His entire face was covered in bruises, which was not a novelty for Watson – whenever Holmes needed to run away from a problem, he would try to cover it by a black eye or a split lip in the fighting ring. Worst of all, he was shaking all over and kept talking incoherently, occasionally giving himself a break just to let out an animalistic howl, as if he was in terrible pain. Watson didn't know whether it was because he had developed a fever, or whether something else was causing his delirium.

A particularly loud sob returned the moisture to Watson's eyes. He felt as if he was the one who held the knife, as if he was the one who landed the punches, as if he was the one who reduced his best friend and the man he respected most of all, to this mess.

He started stroking Holmes's damp hair, hoping to soothe him a bit and make his sleep a little bit more peaceful . He was convinced that it was the delirium that constantly made him writhe on the bed and try to talk to people who were no longer there. At first the detective leaned into his touch involuntarily, evidently needing reassurance that the ordeal was now over.

'I'm sorry, old boy. I'm here now, right here…'

Something completely unexpected happened when Watson spoke up. Holmes's eyes snapped open, but his whining and crying grew even louder and took on a truly heart-breaking tone. The detective tried to shift away from Watson, into the corner of the bed. He panicked when he realised that his muscles didn't share his opinion and started crying out for Mycroft as loud as he could.

God, he thought it was over. He thought he was safe now, but Watson was back and he was going to trick him again, to make his suffer, to break his lonely heart and then his already maltreated body.

'M-myycroft!' asking for help from his brother required all the energy he had left, and after the effort, moving became only a distant dream. He felt even more hopeless when he realised that the elder Holmes didn't even hear his pleas.

Watson was mortified at what was happening to Holmes. He could only imagine the things that could manage to bring that expression of pure terror to Holmes's face, that could bring tears to his ever-brave and nonchalant eyes.

'It's all right Holmes. You're safe. It's fine, it's fine, old boy,' Watson whispered. He outstretched his hands towards Holmes, to try to hold him down delicately and prevent any damage he might do to himself. To his even greater surprise, Holmes became extremely stiff at Watson's touch, he squeezed his eyes shut and started panting for breath.

'What's the matter, old boy? Are you in any pain?' Watson sounded concerned. Why would he sound concerned? It had to be a mere trick, an attempt to fool him, give him a false sense of security and then start the torture again. But Holmes wasn't an idiot. He knew better and Watson would not manage to outsmart him. 'My dear friend, please speak to me.' Friend? That was a good joke. Sherlock Holmes didn't have friend. Not even one. _You used to be the only one, and then you abandoned me and did this to me. I want to forgive you, but I can't. I'm sorry._

Watson received no reply, but he didn't let go of the frail figure in his arms, hoping for Holmes to regain his composure and start thinking clearly again.

'Leave, please,' he murmured, choking on tears of pain. 'No more, no m-more…'

'You are right. No more of this. You are safe, I'm here, Mycroft is…'

'You'll never see me again, I p-prom-mise,' Watson's attempt at giving comfort was interrupted. 'Just d-don't pro-prolong this any more.'

Watson though he had been confused before, but what was being said now made the picture in his head even more unclear.

'I'm s-sorry I c-can't ev-en die…but you won't h-have to see m-me again, just l-leave.'

And then it hit him. Holmes remembered. Of course he remembered, but Watson realised how much it had to be still hurting him. How could he be so stupid, knowing what Holmes's reaction would be? How could he even think of hurting him on purpose with those hateful words a few days back?

'Holmes. I am tremendously sorry. Anger had the best of me and I did…said things that I didn't mean. Things that I should never have said. Please, I…' Holmes kept his eyes closed, and by now he seemed to be shaking even more than before. 'I know you won't forget this, but I didn't mean any of it! Not towards you, not towards the best of friends I have ever…'

'B-best of friends…Is that what you do to your…friends…' Holmes attempted the comment to come out as a nonchalant snort, but instead it was just a pained whisper. Couldn't Watson just leave him alone and stop playing games?

'I know. I can't tell you enough how sorry I am about the things I said…I…'

Watson didn't expect to be interrupted again, but Holmes seemed to be getting more and more talkative.

'Th-things you said, not did then? Are you not sorry about-bout laughing and…the m-morphine…you could have just given it to me, b-but y-you di-didn't…and y-you s-said that you and M-mary w-would be h-hap-pier…and y-you just stood there and l-laug-ed when h-he t-tor-tured me and…are you not s-sorry about that?'

Watson was staring blankly at Holmes. What was he talking about ? He did what? He couldn't help but feel hurt and he was fighting the urge to break down, hold Holmes close to him and join in his pitiful sobbing. The detective would clearly remember the ordeal for long, but Watson couldn't quite work out why he tried to imply that he was somehow involved in this! True, his harsh words provoked the detective to leave, but… surely Holmes must have known that he wouldn't laugh, that he wouldn't in any way try to actively hurt him!

'Mycrooooooooft! Holmes tried to yell, to get the attention of his brother and be saved from the arms of his oppressor. Unfortunately for the detective, what appeared to him as loud and clear, was just another addition to the collection of quiet, pitiful mumbles. 'Mycroft, it hurts. Do something…'

Holmes made yet another attempt to wriggle free from the embrace and finally Watson complied and let go of his friend. He looked down on him one last time, before he decided to leave. He didn't know what happened. What he did know was that his friend, because that's what Holmes was, needed him. And when one friend needs the other, he should always be there for him.

'Listen my dear friend…'

'You're not my friend, friends don't torture each other. No matter what happens, friend j-just d-don't…' Holmes croaked.

'I'll be back Holmes. Get better, please.' Fighting of the urge to smash something or somebody, Watson left the room.

**Another crappy chapter done. I'm not sure if I should carry on with this, because not too many people seem to be reading this, but anyway… **

**REVIEW if you want to see more, I'm just going to hide now.**


	6. Chapter 6

**First of all, thanks for all the reviews and likes. And thanks for the shout out VicariouslyActed: I'll fix that later, but for now you have me rolling on the floor…I'm laughing so hard that I can't help shiFting in my chair :P And a piece of advice: don't trust the spell check.**

**This chapter is cruel, angsty and the only thing it's missing is homeless puppies. **

**I'm in a' k(q1q2/r^2) E/c^2 rp' mood, which explains the poor quality of my writing at the moment. Then again Dreamitandbelieveit commanded me to update, so I didn't have much choice…**

Watson had to lean against the door as soon as he left the room, to stop himself from falling over. He had seen many terrible things, but the pained and terrified look in Holmes's eyes was enough to send the doctor over the edge. He knew he would never stop blaming himself for what happened. He knew he would repeat his own words over and over again in his head, that he would see that hurt expression on Holmes's face and that he would hear his screams whenever he closed his eyes. Watson tried to take deep breaths; panic was never a good companion in a doctor's life and career. He was pulled out of the dark abyss of his thoughts by a gentle squeeze to his shoulder, and he looked up to see a concerned Mycroft Holmes looming above him. At first he wanted to tell the man to go and be by Holmes's side, as the detective had incompetently requested, but then he realised that he wouldn't be able to function without asking…

'Mycroft, what's happened to him? He's so-so…different, and…what did the doctor say, is he going to be okay?' Despite his best efforts, Watson was trembling like a leaf, fearing what he might hear in reply.

'The cuts and bruises should heal eventually, but…'Truth be told, Mycroft didn't know what happened in the house that he had rescued his brother from. What he did know, was that Sherly claimed that Watson was there, with his capturers and that he was a part of all this. The elder Holmes would never believe it, but he needed to ask the doctor; if not for the sake of justice, then for the sake of his brother's peace with his friend. 'You're completely right and I don't recognise him myself. I realise he is probably just terrified by all this, but he doesn't really want to let anyone except myself near him and…doctor, I'm sorry but he has said that you were somehow…' Mycroft coughed, still unable to guess what Watson's reaction to his suggestion would be,'…that you were involved in all this. Directly. And that you knew the man who did this to him, and that you were present in the house when all this happened.' Mycroft Holmes was hardly ever uncomfortable around people, his profession didn't allow for it, but now the palms of his hands have suddenly become damp and he felt as if the cravat tied around his neck was squeezing all air out of his lungs.

''Mycroft, you do realise that this is completely ridiculous?!' he looked up at the taller man, trying to decipher the different emotions painted on his face. 'I agree, we did have an argument, after which he stormed out of the house and got caught up in this mess. I-I'm not proud of the things I said to him and I tried to apologise, and I imagine that no words can…make up for what I've said. But…Mycroft, he's like a brother to me, you know I would never help those-those _animals_ , or anyone for that matter hurt him in any way!'

Mycroft needed to hear no more. The pure terror and sadness in the doctor's voice were only a solid confirmation of what he already knew; that his brother's words or experiences were only brought on by the fever and had the circumstances been different, he would think the scenario to be impossible himself. He nodded in reply to the doctor's voiceless plea for understanding and put his hand on the handle of the door leading to the guest bedroom, currently occupied by his younger brother.

'Did he not want you to stay with him?' the man asked, having realised that the doctor was headed for the stairs, obviously trying to find his way out. The look on Watson's face immediately turned from worried to simply broken, and the elder Holmes knew what reply he would hear.

'As I said, I don't quite recognise him. Neither do I think, does he recognise me. I'd better, ekhem, leave. I don't want to cause him any more distress,' Watson whispered, trying to swallow back the tears that have not gathered in his eyes and thanking God that he now had his back to Mycroft. Oh, how he wished he had kept his mouth shut a few days ago! Now he not only lost the respect of Mary's family and a few patients, but also his best friend, and he feared he might never get him back.

Mycroft wordlessly acknowledged the doctor's decision to leave, but before the man reached the bottom of the stairs, he called out for Watson.

'Good doctor! Don't forget that he needs a friend now, more than anything else. As hard as I try, I can't offer him more than a warm bed and a cup of soup. He might not realise it now, but you'll both mark my words.' Watson could hear the evident note of sadness in Mycroft's voice, but he also felt empowered by the message behind it. They both needed Watson to fix his mistake, and as he stepped over the threshold, he promised himself he would do whatever it takes to accomplish that.

* * *

Watson tried to form a plan in his head, to decide on what was the best way to win back Holmes's trust. He certainly didn't expect to be given a chance to redeem himself so soon, when yet another telegram arrived from Mycroft, asking for his immediate arrival at his lodgings. Watson could think of only one reason for Mycroft's request and didn't even bother with putting on a coat, when he left Mary on her own in the living room of their Cavendish Place home.

He wasn't greeted by anyone at the entrance to the house, so he assumed he was free to enter. He slowly climbed up the stairs, and as he started walking towards the room that Holmes temporarily lived in, he heard loud voices over the creaking of the old floorboards.

'In here Doctor Watson!' he heard Mycroft cry and sped up, scenting a sense of urgency in his voice.

Watson returned into the dimly-lit guest bedroom, only to find that he liked even less what he was seeing now. Holmes was curled up in his brother's arms, his face buried against Mycroft's shoulder. The doctor didn't need to ask to know that something was seriously wrong, because he had never seen the expression on Mycroft's face so grave. He knelt by the pair on the floor, sparing the elder Holmes a questioning look.

'I don't know doctor. I don't know…he just said something about an injection and poison and…' When Watson realised that Mycroft's bottom lip started quivering as he was speaking, he put a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, indicating that it was okay for him to stop talking. He managed to put himself together however, and carried on. 'He's been absolutely frantic for the last few hours. Absolutely. Dr. Evans here,' he motioned at a short, plump man hiding in the corner of the room, looking extremely worried, 'he has administered morphine and other sedatives, but he just won't stop…doing this…'Mycroft looked down at his brother, who had wrapped his hands protectively around himself, and now was _pleading_ for death, to nobody in particular, with an agonised grimace on his tired face.

Watson thought hard. Poison, poison, poison…that didn't really make much sense. It made no sense at all. He thought back to Afghanistan, scanning his memory for any hints as to what might be happening. Nothing. His mind was blank. The only thing he could think about was how much he wished that Mycroft's people hadn't killed the bastards who did this. He would much rather have the pleasure to himself.

'An injection?' Watson murmured, trying to run all the possible answers through his head. Mycroft rolled up Holmes's sleeve to reveal an angry, swollen bruise on his arm – that's where the needle must have got in. 'Right,' Watson mumbled, without really pondering over it. Nothing was really right at the moment. 'Mycroft, what can I…I don't know…' Watson felt as if he was about to cry. He had saved people's lives in war. He had helped people that in theory had no chance of being helped. And now he couldn't even do a single bloody thing to relive his friend's suffering. 'Have you tried chloroform?' he finally asked the doctor standing in the corner. The man appeared to be scared of him, as if his best efforts weren't good enough. He replied with a tacit nod of his head.

'And?' Watson questioned further, his voice sounding harsher than he intended it to.

'Nothing. His sleep was restless anyway. I don't even know what we're dealing here with.'

When Holmes unexpectedly made a particularly disconcerting sound, Watson instinctively shifted closer to him, in an attempt to offer comfort, without thinking about it twice. The abrupt movement attracted the detective's attention, and as soon as he dimly realised who was kneeling next to him, the expression on his face turned from that of agony, into pure panic. He evidently tried to move off Mycroft's knees, but his battered body disagreed with him, and eventually the only thing that was left to do, was to nuzzle closer to his big brother.

'Mycroft…I can't, it's too much…Please, just…e-end this s-somehow,' he managed to choke out, looking up at Mycroft, no longer able to suppress the tears of pain and frustration. Watson finally let go as well. It didn't matter anymore if Mycroft saw him like this or not. He couldn't stand the fact that he didn't know how to help Holmes. Worse still, he wanted to die himself for making it even harder, instead of improving anything. Contrary to the detective's wishes, Watson moved closer to the shaking figure laying in Mycroft's arms.

'Old fellow, you need to tell me exactly what's wrong. I want to help you, but if I don't know exactly what happened…'

'B-but…you m-must know. You w-were there…Y-you can j-just fin-nish what you s-started,' Holmes managed to blurt out in between the sobs wracking his body.

'Finish what?' Watson asked confused, but still happy that he managed to coax a reply out of Holmes.

Suddenly Holmes turned to face Watson, seemingly more lucid than he had been for a while. 'If you really are m-my f-friend…j-just end t-this. Watson, I-I think I need you t-to…' Holmes mustered a little bit more strength from his exhausted muscles and turned towards the doctor. 'Please,' he whispered in a small voice, looking Watson in the eyes and turning himself towards the bedside table.

Watson's heart stopped. Holmes was reaching for his revolver.

**Yeah. Crap. Almost as crappy as me. **

**REVIEW if you like. If you don't, drop me a PM, or drop a rock on my head and make me shut up.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Welcome back my dearest readers! So I have been threatened by xxvildexx, intrigued by a shocked guest (did you mean that in a negative or a positive sense btw, if you're still there?), , given mental support by AstraGalactic and AP, defended from my own self-destructive tendencies by Dreamitandbelieveit who also started bossing me around again, and felt appreciated by star7k and two other guests – how could I not update? Btw star7k – I'm sorry to disappoint, but no matter what, I don't write slash, sorry, but I hope you still like this.**

**This chapter came out super-long and I think it's boring and slow-going, so I'm sorry again. I don't even think this makes any sense, because my distracted brain wasn't able to put on paper what I had in mind.**

**But that's what happens when you give me a laptop and let me type. **

Mycroft's body stiffened immediately when he realised that the revolver was set and ready to fire at any moment. He didn't dare risk peeling his brother's fingers off the contraption, fearing that the bullet might fire unintentionally, ricochet off the brick wall and hurt someone in the room. He could only stare, as the detective raised the gun to his own head, gripping the handle harder and…held it in front of his face looking it over carefully, as if it was one of the specimens he used to experiment on when he was younger.

'Mycroft…l-leave now, would you. A-and y-you doctor E-evans,' Holmes mumbled, still gripping the gun like a lifeline. Mycroft tried to think quickly. Whatever his brother was going to do, it could only mean trouble, and he wished that he was brave enough to have a go at snatching the gun out of his brother's fingers. But Mycroft Holmes was Mycroft Holmes and reason won the battle with his feelings. He gently pushed his brother off his lap and onto the bed, trying not to cause him any more pain than he was already in. The younger Holmes was visibly terribly distressed, but he tried his best not to let it show. Regardless, he couldn't help a quiet groan and almost let go of the contraption in his hand, before putting himself back together and holding onto it even more tightly.

'Sherly, I…' Mycroft tried to speak. Unfortunately, not only was the detective in no state to be reasonable, but he also interrupted, before any reasonable words could be spoken.

'I s-said-l-leave. N-now,' Holmes managed to gasp, trying to wave the gun around for better effect. Mycroft had never struggled so hard in his entire life to make a decision; never mind world peace, Sherlock was his brother and brothers shouldn't leave each other under such circumstances. 'P-please,' the younger Holmes whispered, locking his eyes on those of Mycroft. The taller man was surprised to find anything but anger in his brother's eyes. The waving of the gun, the sudden willingness to be on his own indicated resentment, but all he saw was incredible suffering, and raw, desperate need to be freed from it. Truth be told, Mycroft feared it more than the rage. When people were angry they made mistakes. When people followed their most basic instincts, like Sherlock, they put themselves in danger. 'G-get out,' Holmes spat, moving his head away to avoid his brother's gaze again, as new tears stated glistening in his eyes.

The elder Holmes nodded at doctor Evans and started heading for the door. His heart was hammering against his ribcage, he simply knew that the moment he left the room he would hear a gunshot and mere minutes later he would be cleaning up a corpse. He knew that it wasn't right, but he was hoping against his conscience that it would be the corpse of a doctor, not a detective.

The lock of the door clicked and Watson swallowed loudly. He was still kneeling by the bed, his hand frozen where it had been about to grasp Holmes's wrist to prevent him from getting hold of the weapon. He feared that even the most delicate move could startle his friend and have tragic consequences for either of them. He slowly raised his head to look at the figure on the bed.

The revolved was no longer pointing at anything, just lying powerless by Holmes's side. The detective's eyes were closed, but Watson could tell he wasn't asleep. Every single of his short, shallow breaths came out as a silent whimper, and Holmes was visibly trying to suppress those. The doctor was tempted to get hold of the detective's hand, whisper words of comfort and wipe some sweat from his burrowed brow with the cloth abandoned at the foot of the bed, but he knew that by attempting anything of this sort, he would be putting himself at risk. His friend was obviously delirious, and there was no way of knowing what he would do in this state.

'Old boy,' Watson whispered, moving barely an inch, just to check what Holmes's reaction would be. Nothing happened, and the doctor found new confidence to speak up. 'Old boy, please put this away.'

Holmes's grip on the revolved tightened in reply and as he turned his head to the side, he also opened his eyes to look at Watson.

'It-'s not l-like y-you, W-w-w…' a violent cough shook Holmes's body as another agonising spasm ripped through his body. Watson saw that there was no way Holmes would be able to use the gun now, so he used the opportunity to move closer to the detective, sit on the bed and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. The moment the coughing subsided, Holmes decided to ignore the gesture and carried on speaking. 'I k-know I h-h-a-ve b-been…tr-trou-ble-some, b-but…oh God, oh G-goood…, no,no,no,no,no,no,no…I c-can't, c-c-can't…' Halfway through the sentence another wave of pain swept over Holmes's body and the detective lost whatever bits of self-composure and dignity he had left seconds ago. The revolver lay abandoned amongst the crumpled bed sheets, as Holmes's hand was desperately clutching the bedding, as if it could fight away the agony. Watson could only stand by hopelessly and watch his best friend writhe and cry on the bed, in a futile attempt to free himself from the horror he was going through. The words he spoke were easier to distinguish that any spoken before, but Watson wished he could close his ears and never open them again. He heard soldiers scream in agony when he was at war, he saw people beg for death, and shamefully, he even helped some of those poor souls end their living nightmares. But this time it was a million times worse. Not only was the figure on the bed so close to his heart, but the sheer inability to do anything was killing Watson. He was left to watch his friend's struggles and apologise for refusing Holmes's heart-wrenching pleas for death. He knew that the detective didn't _really_ mean it, but every time Holmes choked on his own sob, Watson wished that he could fulfil his friend's request.

Finally Holmes slumped amongst the sheets again, more as a result of exhaustion than because the agony subsided. Watson glanced at the revolver and turned away for a moment, having made sure that it was not a real danger any more. He wanted to give Holmes some space and to think for himself as well. His musings were interrupted shortly however, as the detective tried to speak again.

'I-I'm sorry,' he whispered in a small voice, looking up at Watson. The look in Holmes's eyes made Watson's gut twist: he had never seen so much pain and sadness anywhere and he hated himself for partially being a cause of it. If he could have a one and only wish in a lifetime, he would ask for permission to swap places with Holmes. If anyone deserved this fate at all, it was him, for being such an insensitive bastard.

The doctor tried to relax the expression on his face somehow, so as not to startle Holmes and reclaimed his seat next to the trembling body on the bed.

'You don't need to be sorry. Why would you even, old boy?' he asked, genuinely confused.

'-b-bout earlier…' Holmes couldn't catch his breath for another moment, but Watson didn't need him to speak, he knew exactly what his friend meant. He had made it clear enough. 'You c-can k-kill me n-now if y-you l-like. You s-said y-ou d-d-id…' Holmes motioned with his head towards the revolver laying to the side. Before Watson even noticed, Holmes had curled in on himself again, and the litany of pleas for mercy started again, together with the intensified tremors and occasional cries of pain. After what felt like eternity, exhaustion finally took over Holmes for good and he passed out. Not that it made the situation any easier. Watson stopped caring about what Holmes liked or didn't and decided to concentrate on what he needed instead.

He asked to have a few wet pieces of cloth delivered to the bedroom and spent the next hour or so nursing his friend through those most difficult moments. Holmes was not even lucid enough to realise that it was Watson who was attending to him and as his instincts took over, he relished in every gentle touch of the cold, wet material to his brow. The doctor's heart broke when he thought that had Holmes known who was sitting by his side, he would be far from compliant.

Every now and then a lock of dark hair would fall into Holmes's closed eyes as he trashed violently, and Watson made sure that this was taken care of. Neither did he neglect his responsibility to force some water down his friend's throat. Holmes's panicked attempts to get away as the cold liquid slipped down his throat almost brought Watson close to catatonia himself. He tried to tell himself that it was for Holmes's good, but there was still nothing worse than knowing that you were the source of your best friend's fear and pain.

Of course, Mycroft came in with doctor Evans every now and then, to make sure that they were not needed. Every single time Watson refused their help, feeling personally responsible for Holmes. And every time he realised that yet another hour of this nightmare passed, he was feeling more and more helpless.

Holmes might have been sleeping, but he was definitely not resting. His incoherent talking continued and his body wasn't able to relax even for a second. There was a moment, when the detective cried Watson's name and gripped the sleeve of his jacket with almost inhuman strength, making a ray of hope appear in the doctor's mind. It was gone as soon as it appeared, when the doctor realised that the only reason that Holmes acknowledged his presence, was because he was the source of the agony in Holmes's nightmare.

There wasn't much the doctor could do, so he patiently carried on his ministrations with the wet cloth and tried to block out all the sounds and images from around him. He was doing considerably well, until the moment when Holmes yelped in surprise, and unconsciously pushed Watson's hand away, as his eyes snapped open. The look of complete and utter confusion returned to his face, only to be replaced by pure terror when he realised Watson's physical proximity to him.

'Don't…p-please,' he whispered, pushing away the piece of cloth. 'Stop t-this…t-this trick-kery.'

'There's no trickery here, old boy. It's just your mind toying with you. I really wish you could see that,' Watson murmured resignedly, grasping Holmes's hand in his, as an indication of his support for the detective. He flinched but didn't try to move away from Watson. 'I'm sorry about what I said then. I didn't mean it and you know that I would never do anything to hurt you on purpose. I wouldn't…'Watson had no idea what was happening, but his voice hitched in his throat and his eyes suddenly became dangerously moist. 'I could never…not to you…not to…my best friend…' Watson gasped out.

_The pieces of this puzzle were scattered all over the table, and Holmes thought that he might have even lost some of them altogether. Watson hated him. Watson had wanted him dead. Watson had almost had him dead. Now Watson didn't want him dead. Now Watson was nice. Now nothing made sense. Premise one: if all of the evidence gathered does not make sense, the detective must be wrong. Premise two: Sherlock Holmes is never wrong. Conclusion: Sherlock Holmes is not a detective? But he clearly is! A not-so-logical conclusion, but a conclusion nevertheless: Sherlock Holmes is dreaming. Yes. Dreaming._

The expression on Holmes's face suddenly appeared to be more understanding and focused and a shadow of a smile appeared on his tired face.

'Yes, m-maybe,' the detective murmured and immediately needed a break to fight off a coughing fit. 'm-maybe you w-wouldn't, but t-the _r-real_ W-watson…he's a so-soldier and he h-hates me d-deeply I t-think, so…'

Holmes was evidently fighting exhaustion and pain in a desperate attempt to continue. However, Watson couldn't stand this madness anymore, and clasped his hand over the detective's mouth. _The real Watson? What was all this about? _He knew he would startle Holmes, he knew he would only alienate him even more, he knew he would worsen the ever-present agony, but the words induced by the delirium hurt too much. Holmes just looked at him passively, knowing that he would stand no chance of freeing himself from his friend's grasp.

Watson loosened the grip, but his hand still remained in place and he bent down over Holmes to look him in the eyes.

'I am real. I don't hate you. Stop this, Holmes. I beg of you, stop this, my dearest, dearest friend,' he whispered. Even though his voice was very quiet, the word were still articulated clearly and firmly.

Watson intended to calm Holmes down and help him rebuild at least some of the lost confidence, but the detective seemed to be even more upset having heard the words. He turned his face away and buried it in the pillow, and it took Watson only a moment to realise that his friend was crying again.

'I-I'll miss it, y-you know…' he whispered, his voice trembling. Watson was no longer sure whether Holmes was in pain or simply upset because of him. He leaned down even more, indicating for the detective to continue. 'I-ll m-miss the g-good and c-caring W-w-watson…I mean if I d-don't d-die. I feel b-bad, so I-I think Im-might…'

'You won't, old boy. It'll get better, I promise,' Watson replied quietly.

'D-don't make p-promises y-you can't keep,' Holmes snapped dryly. Watson was startled by the resignation in the detective's voice and acting instinctively, scooped him up into his arms and held him close to his chest. He cringed when the detective grunted in protest, and cursed himself for the millionth time for being such a ridiculously bad friend.

'See, you idiot? You're not going anywhere,' Watson replied playfully, tightening his grip on the broken body cradled close to his chest, and paying attention not to aggravate any of the injuries. 'I'm here, I'm real. Hit me if you like and see for yourself.'

Holmes stiffened after he heard the last sentence, still unable to believe that Watson was back to being his normal self again. Nothing made sense.

'What's wrong?' Watson asked worriedly when his friend's body went completely rigid in his arms.

'You'll h-hit me b-back…' Holmes gasped. 'And I-I'm dying already.'

Watson sighed in exasperation and rubbed Holmes's arm to reassure him that there was no need to hit anyone if he didn't want to. The detective yelped in pain and surprise, and he instinctively nuzzled closer to Watson's chest to escape the new agony inflicted by his hand. He expected the dream to end any moment now, to be pushed away and hurt by Watson again, or to find that he had never even been rescued from the hands of Cavendish and his thugs.

Instead Watson hunched over him even more, as if to shield him from any danger that might suddenly come his way. Contrary to what his reason told him, Holmes felt safe. As safe as he had not felt in a long time and even though he felt as if he was being stabbed by a thousand white-hot knives at the moment, he allowed himself to let out a content sigh. He looked up at Watson, to see that the other man was smiling at him delicately. _This was definitely a dream. The real Watson hated him. _

Holmes bathed in the warmth and comfort of the embrace for a long moment, not wanting to let go. The distraction allowed him to forget the pain that was consuming his body for a moment, but when he remembered it again, it hit with doubled force. Watson only gave his hand a gentle squeeze, as he heard the keening sound that escaped Holmes's lips.

The detective hated himself for being so stupid. Dreams were illusions and when people got too attached to their illusions, waking up became incredibly painful and reality was even more of a nightmare. Holmes decided that this needed to end now. If he really had to suffer, he wouldn't make it any worse for himself that it needed to be. He _had_ to wake up now, because postponing it and losing Watson – his friend Watson – again would pain him too much. He coughed to attract the attention of the other man, and was happy to see that his gesture was understood.

'W-watson, make m-me wake up…'he murmured, his voice void of all emotions.

'You are awake, old boy,' the doctor replied patiently.

'No, no, no. Help me w-wake up,' he paused to stare straight into Watson's eyes. 'I h-have to…'

'You're not dreaming. I promise,' Watson whispered right into Holmes's ear, hoping that feeling his breath so close to him would make him realise that he was telling the truth. He was so absorbed by the task at hand, that he didn't realise that Holmes managed to get hold of the abandoned gun yet again. When he noticed what was happening, it was already too late, and his eyes widened in fear as a gunshot rang out.

**Not sure if I should kill Holmes or not. Not even sure if I'll continue this. **


	8. Chapter 8

**You told me to continue, so I continued. By the way, I LOVE YOU ALL for the reviews, which really, really motivate me. I can't tell you enough. Threats that one will be skinned are quite a powerful argument, although an illegal one as well :P**

**I hope you like this one!**

There was no time left to snatch the weapon from Holmes's fingers. All that Watson could do, was to push his hand away from his temple and see what happens. He felt something brush his shoulder in a considerably unpleasant manner, and a second later a bullet was lodged in the wall opposite the bed. Holmes had terror and disappointment painted on his face, when he saw a small red patch on the sleeve of Watson's jacket. The doctor was praying that his friend would not descend any further into this black pit of insanity, and he tried to ignore the throbbing in his arm and attend to Holmes. The detective tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but the desperation only aggravated his exhaustion and he slumped hopelessly against the pillows.

Watson couldn't help looking down at the wound. He let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding, when he realised that the bullet only brushed him and the injury was only superficial. He could imagine what Holmes would go through if Watson suffered as a result of his rushed actions. One glance at his friend told him that this scratch was enough to make matters worse. Holmes had flung one arm over his eyes, as if to shield himself from all the horrors around him, and he looked completely lost and inappropriate laying amongst the crumpled bed sheets.

'Old boy,' Watson whispered, hunching over Holmes and ignoring the need for his shoulder to be cleaned and bandaged. At first the doctor got no reply, but after a moment of silence, which felt like eternity for both of them, Holmes let out a litany of apologies and self-loathing curses. Watson tried to disrupt the mumbling, but Holmes wouldn't let him. Instead he grasped the doctor's shoulder, to check if he had really inflicted the injury, and having realised that this was all really happening, he wailed even louder, as if he was the one who had been hurt. Not that he wasn't. 'Holmes,' Watson tried again.

'I'm sorry,' the detective whispered, hardly audibly and returned to pretending that the world around him didn't exist.

Mycroft and doctor Evans entered the room as soon as they decided that it was safe to do so. The elder Holmes would curse himself forever for being so stupid and allowing this to happen. He was relieved to find his brother still in bed and slightly surprised to see Watson sitting upright next to him.

'What just…,' he was about to ask, when the doctor interrupted him.

'We're all right. It's just a little scratch,' he murmured without looking up at the newcomers. 'Although, could you maybe have some soup, bread and water brought up?'

When Mycroft left briefly to alarm the servants, Holmes looked at Watson with a very confused expression on his face. Doctor Evans offered to take a look at Watson's arm, but he thought it could wait. He needed to calm his friend first.

'Don't look so surprised, old chap. I told you it was all just a hallucination, like a bad dream. _This_ is real. And I am the one who should be sorry.'

Silence.

'N-none of this m-makes s-s-sence, W-watson. I c-cannot make b-b-b…'

'Bricks without clay, yes, I know,' Watson finished, hoping for his friend to save his energy. 'Let's make a deal. I give you clay, you promise to calm down now, and we make bricks together.'

He caught Holmes's limp hand in his, squeezing it as a gesture of support. He was hoping that maybe (just maybe) the detective would return it somehow, but he had to be satisfied by the lack of any attempt to get away from the touch. Any attempts at showing pity were dangerous, and could result in Holmes remaining silent for days to show the whole world that he didn't need comfort. What he got was already more than Watson could really ask for.

'What if…I d-don't want to c-calm down,' Holmes whispered staring at the corner of the room which was not occupied by dr. Evans, who had to be feeling pretty useless at the moment.

'What is it that you want? I've already forgiven you that little mistake. I've taken back what I had said,' Watson continued inquiring.

'I think…I want to die, W-watson.'

The doctor needed to swallow a gulp in his throat, because of the matter-of-fact tone of Holmes's voice.

He knew that he didn't _really_ want to die. There were still cases to be solved, there were still new places to visit and new medicines to be discovered. Maybe, just maybe, there were still the games of cards that he and Watson could play and the long walks through Hyde Park with Gladstone, when they would mock the politicians and make fun of the Yarders. Maybe…maybe…but he couldn't take it any longer, no matter what. Every single nerve in his body was screaming at him to make an exit. Every single cell seemed to be on fire. Every single minute of this torture seemed like an hour…

'W-watson,' he said quietly, trying to fight off the urge to cry. 'W-what is h-happening t-to me?'

Right. So he didn't really want to die if he was asking this sort of questions, did he?

'What you said earlier and the symptoms point towards…there is an animal that lives in New South Wales, which produces a poison, which can…well, make this happen. And…'Watson needed to take a deep breath before continuing. 'And no cure has yet been discovered. It's incredibly rare and also rather powerful and…old boy?' Watson asked worriedly when Holmes's frail body tensed up, as yet another wave of agony and exhaustion hit.

'D-do co-ontin-nue,' Holmes spat out through his gritted teeth.

'It will pass sooner or later. And you're…I hope that I can still have the honour of calling you my best friend,' Watson's voice was gradually becoming quieter. He looked down on Holmes for some sort of confirmation, but received none. He didn't deny it either, so the doctor continued bravely. 'Therefore, I will do everything in my power to make it more comfortable for you. And I will never leave you again like this. Ever. I promise. And I promise that this is all real, old chap.'

Watson winced as he carried on speaking. He should _really_ get his shoulder looked at. The wound was only a mere scratch, but with this weather he could easily catch an infection. Before he did take care of himself, there was one more thing that needed doing.

'You have to eat something. You must be starving,' Watson ordered in a voice that made it clear that there was no room for disagreement.

Mycroft had been standing in the doorway with a tray for quite a while, waiting for the right moment to enter the bedroom. When Watson took the tray from him, wincing slightly as he strained his bruised shoulder, and set it on the bedside table, having disposed of the damned gun. The elder Holmes made himself comfortable in an armchair standing next to the window, while Watson caught Holmes under his shoulders and helped him sit up, trying to masque the discomfort his injury was causing. Holmes was faring no better himself; his body was stiff as a board and every single move aggravated the knife wounds, especially the one in his forearm.

Ignoring the exhaustion, Watson broke the bread Mycroft had brought, and put it into the bowl of steaming chicken soup. Holmes could smell the food from the bed, and regardless of the all-consuming agony, his stomach signalled loudly that it would like some. Watson looked at Holmes, unsure of whether it was safe to offer to help him with eating. The detective made a slight movement, as if he wanted to reach out and grab a spoon himself, but his hand shifted only a few inches, and brought a new grimace of pain onto his face. He wouldn't admit that he needed help. Not from Watson. Not yet. He tried to shield his pride, and pretend that nothing happened, that he wasn't hungry at all. He closed his eyes, hoping that it would help him block out the smell somehow, knowing that in reality it would probably only make it stronger.

'Holmes,' Watson said firmly. The detective sighed, frustrated at the failure of his plan: not only did the smell get stronger, but Watson also realised his despair. To his relief, when he lifted his eyelids again, a spoonful of the soup with a piece of bread in it was right in front of his face. All he needed to do was open his mouth, and he was sure that Watson would do the rest. Easy. But what if…if he poisoned it again? What if he would lose all respect for Holmes because of his petty weakness?

'Old boy, don't look at me like this. It's just soup. I'm sorry if you don't trust me…' Watson paused and sighed. 'But you saw Mycroft bring it in. You need to have some,' he finished in his doctor voice.

Holmes could _never_ argue with the doctor voice. The first spoonful tasted bitter and wrong. It tasted like shame, like humiliation and it felt heavy on his stomach. The second spoonful felt better. A little bit like Mrs Hudson's chicken soup, but maybe that was just because Watson actually smiled at him when he complied and opened his mouth willingly. He couldn't tell what the fourth spoonful tasted like, because all he could taste in his throat was bile. He guessed it was just the perk of eating after being starved for a few days. After the urge to vomit subsided he even managed the fourth and the fifth spoons, both of which were warm, delicious and brought him relief that he hadn't felt in a long while. Swallowing water after the soup felt nice as well. When having one's body on fire, even a tiny trickle of something cool down his throat was a more-than-welcome distraction. Eating and drinking were exhausting distractions however.

Watson used the opportunity to get his shoulder bandaged while Holmes seemed to have drifted off. Mycroft was not happy about the bullet in his wall, but he certainly looked relieved that nobody got seriously hurt. The doctor took a seat in an armchair opposite Mycroft's when a quiet whimper brought him back to reality. He was by Holmes's side in a matter of seconds. The detective was staring ahead, looking thoroughly worn out and despaired.

'How is your s-shoulder?' he asked unexpectedly. They both knew that he was only trying to divert Watson's attention from the real source of his discomfort.

'Good. Don't worry about it,' the doctor replied, forcing a smile to reassure Holmes. 'Why are you not asleep?'

'B-bec-cause I w-woke up,' Holmes groaned, as if it was the only answer one would expect to such a question. Not that it was incorrect.

'Why did you wake up?' This time Watson's question was not graced with a reply at all. 'Holmes, answer me.' he pressed the issue further.

'I…,' the detective could not form a coherent reply, not least because of the pain that had intensified suddenly, but also because Watson's voice sounded very stern, and Holmes started fearing that maybe he had actually dreamt that Watson wanted to be his friend again. Unexpectedly, the doctor put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and attempted a smile to put Holmes at ease. 'Well…it just…it hurts so terribly Watson,' he spat out finally, forgetting his pride. 'I c-can't t-take m-my mind off it. E-even when I'm s-sleeping…'

Watson wanted to smash something, feeling helpless when he saw shame in Holmes's eyes and knew that he could do nothing to help it. Holmes _had_ to rest. He already had a slight fever, because of the conditions they had held him in. Exhausting himself would only make matters worse. He didn't need to get sick on top of everything else and exhaustion was certainly conductive to that.

'I suppose I could give you a sedative to help you sleep. You really can't keep going like this, old boy,' Watson said resignedly, knowing how much Holmes hated any and all sedatives. They made him helpless and reliant on other people, and succumbing to anybody else's care scared him more than anything else. Holmes was evidently battling with himself. He should know that with Mycroft and dr. Evans in the room he was under no threat, but Watson realised that he was making his friend uneasy. He really wanted to kill the bastards who did this. 'Or maybe dr. Evans could, and I'll just…leave, I suppose…' To Watson's horror, his voice was trembling. His shoulder was long-forgotten and his main focus now was his best…Holmes's rejection.

'Yes. I m-mean to th…the sedative. C-could you m-maybe s-stay? I know that M-mary…'

Watson didn't hear the rest of the sentence, because he was trying to suppress the urge to jump around the room in joy. Holmes asked him to stay by his bedside, what a joy! Maybe their friendship was not lost?

'I shall send her a telegram, old boy. Regardless of what happened last week, I bet she's sick worried about you too.'

Had Holmes not been trying not to grimace too much, he would probably smile at that last comment. Watson left his side briefly, only to come back with a piece of cloth soaked with chloroform. Holmes hated it, how Watson would never give him morphine, fearing that his addiction would kick in again. Before Watson could do anything with the drug, Holmes pushed him to sit down on the edge of the bed, and shifted closer to the doctor, with whatever strength he had left. When Holmes's head was resting against Watson's thigh, he could feel the trembling; had he now known better, he would think that Holmes was having some kind of seizure.

'Real?' the detective asked, with his eyes closed tightly.

'Real.'

'Stay?'

'Always. Now, try to take a few deep breaths for me,' Watson said. By the time he brought the cloth down, the detective had drifted off and the sudden invasion of his private space made him try to get up, and managed to drive him into a frenzy again. Holmes knocked down the empty glass standing on the bedside table and almost pushed himself off the bed. Mycroft was starting to get up from the chair, but then two strong hands gripped Holmes under his arms and held him tightly. At first the detective struggled, having minutely forgotten where he was and why everything hurt so much. Seconds later, somebody's hand was holding his face pressed against their chest and whispering into his ear that it's was alright. Holmes knew the voice and contrary to his reason, he trusted it.

'Holmes, you're at your brother's home in Central London. You need to rest and you agreed for me to sedate you. I promise, you're in no danger. Mycroft is here, and another doctor, and I know you're feeling unwell, but we're all trying to help.' The detective seemed to have calmed down a bit at the softly spoken words. 'I'm about to put a cloth over your mouth. You'll need to breathe in deeply, old boy. You'll start feeling very weak immediately, but I'm here and I'll be here when you'll be sleeping and when you wake up. I need you to be calm, because otherwise you're going to hurt yourself. Do you think you can trust me?' Watson hated the fact that he needed to talk to Holmes as he would to one of his regular patients.

'Of c-course. I t-trust m-my f-friends,' Holmes whispered and nuzzled closer into Watson's shirt.

_So he wasn't talking to a patient after all. Thank God._

**Please REVIEW and tell me what you think. Being the terrible perfectionist that I am, I can't bring myself to like this chapter (surprise! surprise!)**

**So now that they don't hate each other anymore, I'm really thinking about ending this. I mean, I could keep typing fluffy h/c stuff if you want me to, but I don't want to overdo it, so it all depends on what you'd like ;)**

**I hope you enjoyed the chapter, which btw came out two pages longer than I intended it too. Oooops. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you sooooo much for all the kind words of encouragement. Honestly, I think that at this point, your reviews are about the only good thing in my life and I can't tell you enough how much they mean…**

Being a friend of Sherlock Holmes was fascinating and exciting. You got to meet interesting characters and visit the corners of London you never even thought existed. But being a friend of Sherlock Holmes was also unhealthy for one's mind, because getting sick with worry was commonplace. Holmes could probably manage to get himself arrested by Lestrade for offending him after breakfast, be awarded knighthood for saving the Queen straight after lunch and knock himself into another cocaine-induced slumber before bedtime, all in one day. Holmes was also dirty, careless and for the love of God, he played the violin at the most inappropriate times of the day, or night rather.

Regardless of all those flaws in his companion, doctor Watson refused to leave Holmes's side when he was asleep. Watching the detective writhe in agony on the bed was not pleasant, but Watson thought it necessary. Contrary to all his medical knowledge and common sense, he felt as if sitting by his friend's side could somehow alleviate his suffering. He was getting increasingly worried however. Holmes's temperature seemed to have risen over the few preceding hours, and Mycroft claimed to have found his brother in a cold, moist basement. That was definitely a bad sign. So were the silent coughs that shook Holmes's fragile body every now and then. At first they didn't appear to be much to worry about, but the moment that the detective started struggling to catch a breath in his sleep, Watson started getting suspicious. A new pile of woollen blankets and cold compresses followed, without any acknowledgment from Watson's patient and dearest friend.

The worst came when Holmes finally came out of the drug-induced sleep. He didn't seem to remember where he was or what was happening to him. He attempted to remove himself from his bed again, which resulted in even more pain and confusion. Watson grabbed him by the shoulders eventually and pinned him against the bed, trying to avoid touching any of the major injuries on his torso and arms.

'Why, why, why…'the detective started murmuring, as soon as he realised who was looming high over him and restricting his ability to move. His voice sounded so utterly broken and hopeless that Watson thought he might break down here and now and cry openly, upon seeing the shadow of what his friend still used to be a couple of days ago. 'Stop this, now…p-please, no m-more. K-kill me, p-please…I c-can't…W-why W-watson!' somehow Holmes managed to raise his voice by the end of the sentence and his words turned into a heart-wrenching wail.

'Old boy, you're safe. You're in Mycroft's house and I thought that we already established that all those…unpleasant things that happened to you did not…didn't involve me anyhow,' Watson said gently, without releasing his grip on the arms of the detective. He didn't seem to understand the words at first and reminded Watson of a scared animal that was being shot at and didn't have anywhere to run to.

'But C-cav-vendish s-said that y-you l-lied 'bout that,' Holmes whispered and squeezed his eyes shut. He needed time to think things through in his head. At first Watson kindly helped him go to bed, so that he could get some rest, but then Cavendish appeared and told him that it was all just lies, that he had never been rescued, that Watson still wanted to take his revenge.

'Cavendish?' the doctor replied questioningly, looking up at Mycroft in search of any indications as to what Holmes might be talking about. The elder Holmes shrugged his shoulders, and then kept staring pensively out of the window. 'Like in one of your last cases? This is real, I swear on my life.' The doctor did not dare move any closer to his friend. He wanted to help him so badly, but it seemed to him like Holmes was truly losing his mind. No doubt the tortures he had had to endure would have a profound effect on him, but he needed help especially if that was the case. So far, all his efforts to give it have gone to waste.

'N-n. H-his brother, y-your f-friend,' Holmes spat out. He tried to make his voice sound venomous, stressing the word 'friend' for better effect, but by the time he finished speaking the words were no more than agonised gasps.

'My friend?' Watson turned away from Holmes. He would bet that the people present in the room could hear the wheels in his brain turning, as he was rampaging through his memory in search of an acquaintance of his named Cavendish, who could be anyhow associated with the hanged murderer. The doctor was lost in thought as the rain pounded heavily on the windows, and magically, as he heard a thunder outside, he remembered. He remembered the tall, slim but at the same time well-built soldier who used to talk to him in the evenings sometimes when they were in Afghanistan. The man who praised his brother as if he was some sort of a saint. He remembered the man who for some reason decided that the burden of helping him get the said brother out of trouble a few weeks back rested upon Watson's shoulders. He would be appalled at not remembering him immediately, had he not dismissed his letter without second thoughts and thrown it into the fire almost as soon as he realised who it came from.

'We…I wouldn't describe him as a friend, he is more of an acquaintance really…' Watson whispered, ashamed of himself as the pieces of the puzzle started forming a clear and well-defined picture in his head. 'We used to talk sometimes. He was worried about his brother. I was a doctor, I was the closest thing these men had to normality, so I had to listen.'

Holmes's eyes were fixed on him. The expression on his face showed that he was more than attentive. The detective appeared to be awaiting Watson to attack him and he finally managed to move his maltreated body into a position that would facilitate self-defence best. Not that it would help anyway.

'A few weeks ago, when the case of his brother was concluded, he approached me asking for help. He knew that I was close to you, so maybe he was hoping that you could take your word back or…I don't know. But I turned him down, quite bluntly I am ashamed to admit, old boy…'

Holmes relaxed suddenly, as much as his poor health permitted and laid back against the pillows. His gaze was still not as playful and trustful as it used to be, even simply at the mention of Watson's name, but it seemed to have warmed momentarily. That information was yet another piece of the puzzle, that could maybe help him get the picture of the situation, that he would give his life to see.

'W-why w-would h-he im-impl-lic-c…' As Holmes was trying to finish the sentence, another violent cough ripped through his body. He was so frail that he was about to fall over and roll out onto the floor, and Watson had to support him with his own tired arms. He could see the battle that was going on inside of Holmes. He evidently wanted to trust Watson and to lean against him, believing that he finally found the much needed shelter and safety. On the other hand, the tension that suddenly entered his muscles indicated that he was terrified of yet another cruel act of betrayal.

'I think he might have tried to implicate me in this for revenge. Think about it, that way he could get to us both, old boy. You for catching his brother, me for refusing to help,' Watson mused, only to receive a questioning look from Holmes. 'What?' he asked, seeing blunt surprise painted on the detective's face.

'I w-would n-never t-tell the p-pol-lice ab-bout y-you,' Holmes whispered, seconds before another wave of agony caught him in its relentless grip and made him cry out loud. He felt that if something or somebody didn't catch him right here and there, he would disintegrate into a mass of burning particles. Watson's hand was the closest thing, so held on t it tightly until the worst of the pain passed. He didn't even notice that Watson was grasping his arm in between his two hands, as if trying to prevent the poison from taking his friend away. 'How w-would he g-get t-to you then…th-rough t-this,' the detective rasped out finally.

Even through the black and red mist that clouded his vision, he could see that Watson's face turned unbelievably pale as if somebody had just slapped him on the cheek.

'How dare y…' Watson stopped himself before he could say anything else that had the potential to upset Holmes. 'You…How? How? Do you think that I'm enjoying myself now? Do you think that I like seeing you like this, or having to nurse you through this ridiculous…' Watson didn't manage to finish the sentence, before Holmes tore his hand out of Watson's grasp and to Watson's displeasure, the detective started biting his lip nervously.

'I h-hate being a n-nuis-sance…L-leave n-now,' he finally whispered, without even looking at the doctor.

'Holmes, I didn't mean it to come out like…'

'LEAVE NOW!' It took Holmes every ounce of his remaining strength to muster the harsh reply, but he was more than sick of all this deception, and not understanding anything. He _always_ understood everything, and now the person he used to consider his best friend was confusing him most of all. He didn't even realise he was coughing, and choking on his own sobs, until Mycroft slammed the door shut behind Watson who had just been thrown out of the room by force.

He wouldn't take this any longer. No more lies, no more deception, no more pain and tears and humiliation. He calculated it all, it all _made sense_, as opposed to Watson, and Cavendish and all this pointless suffering. Mycroft was still by the door, making sure that Watson's attempt to re-enter the room would prove fruitless. It took Holmes a while to move out of bed, especially without avoiding his brother's attention at the same time, but finally he managed. The moment he stood up for the first time, he almost fell down, but thankfully he managed to find leverage against a nearby shelf. Two more steps and he had it. The long thing knife that was laying on the windowsill. Now he just needed to measure it out carefully. They wouldn't be able to do anything if he managed to hit his jugular vein, but with the shaking hands and how weak he already was…

He _had _to give it a try. If he didn't he would be forced to live with the knowledge that the only happy memories of adventure, of friendship that he used to have were all just lies. His dignity wouldn't allow him for that. Neither would the nerve endings in his body, that kept begging him to put himself out of the physical misery.

He couldn't hear anything. He couldn't see anything. He didn't care about anything, but his hand and the knife. He was almost there, and he almost…smiled, at the thought that this would all be over soon. But of course, his lungs needed to protest, and he almost fell down with the force of the coughs and shivers. He needed to do it now. If he didn't, Mycroft would try to stop him, but he couldn't allow this. He needed to finish.

The moment he tried to raise the knife to his neck again, something wet and soft suddenly covered his nose and mouth and it felt rather funny. _He _felt rather funny, with his hand going limp almost immediately and dropping the blade to the floor. His knees went only seconds later. The tremors intensified at the very thought of having such a close encounter with the hard wooden floor, but suddenly somebody was holding him and easing him gently to the ground.

'Easy, old boy, easy. You might pass out in a moment, it's fine. But I didn't mean it to come out like this. You're my best friend, Holmes. Like it or not. You're smart, you're strong and I hate seeing you suffer. It _hurts_ me to see you like this. It _hurts _me that I don't know what to do to help you and it _hurts_ me that you don't even want to _see_ me anymore. _That's_ how Cavendish got to me. And he did a bloody good job.'

Was Watson lying again? Why did everything had to be so confusing? If he was a nuisance, surely, the doctor would have left at the earliest opportunity he just got, but here he was! Maybe he just wanted to keep him alive for his further entertainment? But what he just said…He said they were friends, he said he wanted to help and Holmes knew he needed whatever help he could get. Watson had tried to explain and he pushed him away without listening to an explanation…But what if the explanation was supposed to be just another lie? He couldn't trust him, he couldn't trust anyone…

Holmes tried to reach for the knife again. Maybe they wouldn't notice and he could finish what he started? His finger found the blade, but Watson was quickly prying his thin fingers away from the contraption.

'Old boy, please, trust me. I would never hurt you. I promise. Listen, I think Cavendish might have been coming to find me at Baker Street, maybe he even overheard our quarrel and then got to you…somehow, I wouldn't know,' Watson said with a voice that denoted pure need and desperation.

It made sense. It could have happened like this. The reasoning was valid, but were the premises true? But if they were false, why would Watson keep him alive, if he claimed not to enjoy watching Holmes's ordeal? Suddenly, Holmes felt something different than the overpowering agony. It was unknown and warm, and he liked it, even though he couldn't identify what it was. The story made sense. It made perfect sense. Watson didn't imply it anyhow, he only gave Holmes the facts. It was him who reached the conclusion…Wouldn't Watson suggest it to him if he wanted Holmes to believe him?

This warm feeling returned, unfortunately combined with another surge of pain, and Holmes instinctively draped his arm over Watson's shoulders, needing something to hold on to. At first Watson allowed him to scream as much as he wanted to. There were no words of comfort, no soothing gestures, only making sure that Holmes would do no further damage to himself. Watson suspected that it would be easier for Holmes if he was allowed to let it all out and even though it pained him terribly, he knew without question that Holmes deserved some private space.

His space constricted momentarily though, when another coughing fit decided to attack. A strong pat on the bask was in order, and once Holmes managed to catch his breath, he slumped helplessly in Watson's strong arms. He tried to tell himself that he simply didn't have the strength to escape the doctor's grasp, which wasn't far from the truth, but deep inside he knew that he didn't _really_ want to. Watson's version of the story seemed plausible enough, and Holmes was far more comfortable with hard facts, than empty emotional promises.

His eyes were half-lidded and his arm still draped over Watson's shoulders. The doctor decided to use the opportunity to scoop Holmes up, putting one arm under his knees, and get him back to bed, kicking the knife under it on the way. Watson was terrified at how hot Holmes's skin got. He was definitely running a fever now, as if they didn't have enough problems already. He used fetching some water as an excuse to leave the room for a moment. As soon as he was out, he smashed his fist against a nearby wall. Holmes stopped fighting him, but what if he had a nightmare again and returned to being all deluded and suicidal? What if he got his friend back, only to lose him again? Well, he needed to help him recover anyway, if not as a friend, then at least as a doctor.

Upon entering the bedroom again, he found that Holmes was almost asleep. Watson hated to interrupt his rest, but some things needed to be done first.

'Up. You need to drink, you selfish bastard,' his voice sounded as playful, as he could possibly make it. To his relief, Holmes didn't refuse help with sitting up. Neither did he push away the glass of water offered by Watson's outstretched hands. Not straight away that is, because when the first few sips of the liquid intensified the burning in his throat, he spat it all back out without hesitation.

'I know it's unpleasant, but you have to drink. You know that,' Watson murmured, pushing the glass towards Holmes once again.

'H-he had t-twelve f-fingers I t-think,' Holmes whispered hoarsely, looking up at Watson with a shade of a smile on his face. The doctor had no idea what was going on. It was probably the fever talking. 'C-cav-vendish. S-so 't must h-have b-been a h-hal-lucination. He h-had t-twelve f-fingers….' Holmes smiled at Watson, ignoring the pain and the difficulties with breathing, that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Watson hadn't been lying. Watson hadn't hurt him…Because Cavendish had twelve fingers, and people in real life don't. So it was a dream. Just a bad dream…

Mycroft was standing in the corner, listening to the conversation attentively, unable to hide his joy at his brother's realisation. Watson was doing an even worse job. He needed to swallow past a gulp in his throat and try really hard to make sure that the tears of joy that had gathered in the corners of his eyes didn't roll down his stubble-covered cheeks.

'So you believe me now? Once and for all?' Watson needed to make sure. A huge grin appeared on his face when he received a tentative nod as confirmation. 'Good. Now you need to drink.' This time Holmes shook his head, trying to keep his lips tightly sealed when Watson put a glass of water right next to them.

'I c-can't. 't hurts…' The words were followed by a cough that the detective was evidently trying to supress. Watson shot Mycroft a worried glance and motioned for the elder Holmes to come and join him at Holmes's bedside. The doctor fished a stethoscope out of his Gladstone bag and upon seeing the confusion on his brother's face, Mycroft smoothed back his dark locks.

Watson suspected what he would hear, but he needed to check anyway. The coughing, the conditions Holmes had been kept in, and the constant rattling in the detective's chest told Watson all he needed to know.

'Good God, Holmes,' Watson whispered with a slight tremor in his voice. 'Can't you ever do anything the easy way?'

Holmes coughed once more and grimaced in pain.

**Life sucks. So does this chapter, which btw is way too long. Feel free to say it to my face(well, my digital face I guess); alternatively let me know if you want to see some more after this all-time low, and I shall continue littering the Internet. Or tell me if you want a happier re-write and a quick conclusion to the story. I aim to please.**


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